I am having one hell of a night. One day, I'll look back at it with only a vague memory of why I didn't sleep.

    I just got back from a fun-filled weekend in historic Williamsburg, Virginia. My good friends Steve and Picot got married this weekend in a lovely, simple ceremony at the gorgeous campus of the College of William and Mary.

What I liked - the ceremony was all about Steve and Picot. She was glowing; he was about 18% less dorky than normal, so that's about all we could hope for. The reception was held at Picot's family's house, a fantastic, massive, yet still tasteful home in Williamsburg. The ceremony was full of friends and family.

What I didn't like - there were a lot of people at the reception who couldn't give a sh!t about any member of the wedding party, and were just there to eat and drink.
This is my ONLY real solid, "you can't debate me in this" piece of advice : if you're at a wedding, and the bride, groom, member of the wedding party or immediate family member is giving a speech, shut the mother f*ck up.

There was the most obnoxious, older bee-atch at the reception who would not shut her pie hole, no matter who was talking, be it Picot, Steve, a random father or maid of honor. She was talking, fairly loudly, to one of her equally old and irrelevant friends about the most mundane BS, from who was sick to who was seperated, during the middle of the toasts.

I am not a big massive wedding guy. I often think a big wedding is a sign of a inferiority amongst the bride's family, like they are compensating for something. I like initmate, charming...friendly. I think weddings should be for those who care. Who matter. Small. Family.
 
And I like manners.

If one member of that pre-Baby Boom generation tells me about how kids today don't have manners, I will think about four people at that reception, all of whom over the age of sixty.

The two old battle-axes who wouldn't shut up, and the two old bastards who made derogatory comments about younger members of the reception...within earshot of me.

Amazing. Proof once again that money and education and age does not equate class.

Still, the day was, and should be, all about Picot and Steve. She was a gorgeous bride, in a stunning dress and perfectly made-up. Her bridesmaids were in great dresses, and the groomsmen looked fantastic. I was honored that they asked me, a raw amateur, to take photographs of their wedding and reception. I'll post some of the pictures on my Picasa page - picasaweb.google.com/telecomic - but most of them will go to Steve and Picot. This is my gift to them - photos as good as I can make, given my lack of experience and inability to figure out my camera. I hope that they like what I'm able to Photoshop into acceptability :)

One wedding down, two more to go this fall. Wish me luck.

    I declined the job offer in beautiful, scenic Minneapolis. The cost of getting out of ye olde lease here in Virginny is far too prohibitive to go moving off right now.

Maybe in a few months? Perhaps a year? Maybe never.

Depends. I don't know.

All I know is that, in the end, the allure of moving to the hometown of Semisonic and The Replacements was less than the cost of carrying two households, one in Minnesota and one here in DC.

Maybe if Prince made a new album, that might have thrown the bell curve to the Twin Cities.

Thanks to everybody who expressed concern/gratitude/best wishes/joy that I was getting the hell up outta here...even if it didn't come to fruitition.

Kinda glad in a way. Not sure if I could go to the Mall Of America everytime somebody came to visit. It's a big mall, but, at the end of the day, just a friggin' mall.

A strange thing...I've been organizing my socks. I had no idea how many pairs of socks I had. At last count, nearly 200 pair. I went a few years where I'd rather buy new socks rather than matching the pile of individuals in my big blue tub o' socks. Not saying I'm smart, just lazy.

My tub o' socks has been around for four years.

I've ended up with about 50 or so "unmatchables." Solitary socks without a mate. Who knows where their mates ended up. Some of these socks are years old; others were bought scant weeks ago. I'm sure a few of these never made it out from Edgewater, a few are somewhere in Baltimore, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of these missing socks could be found back in Iowa.

Interesting that I know some of these socks have been missing their partners for years, yet I still carry them around. Scared that somewhere in Heaven, my grandma would be yelling at me for throwing away a perfectly good sock? She'd probably tell me that lots of poor kids would love to have those socks. Or, am I too lazy to pick them out from the pile and throw them away?

Or, just unwilling to let go?

As I'm coming into the Wedding Season, with four weddings in six weekends, I've been thinking about the whole mating dance, and my goodness, socks are the perfect metaphor. Some socks go around for years with their mate right by their side, others with their mate just feet away.

A few socks will never see their match again.

But matching up socks seems right. Something I should have done a while ago.

And, one of these weddings wouldn't have happened had I not set the couple up on a date. My nickname may be Claven, but I'm definitely Cupid.

Yeah, I can see the obvious symbolism of socks and my own life. I'm not blind, and, frankly, I'd have to be Ray Charles to not see the parallels. These socks are the perfect example of my own failures and strengths of my personality. I'm stubborn, sentimental, disorganized, amazingly able to recall minute details of random, innocent encounters, and just plain old lazy.

And Lord knows I've felt like an unmatched sock lately, too. Between dating, career, debts, memories and sorting out various friends...I've got a hell of a lot of socks.

Time to sort out some socks.

    Amazing how little I use Myspace since it's become blocked at work. I still get some blog posts up at OBPOPCULTREF and DCFUD, but this poor thing has been neglected like Britney Spears' kids.

    That's about to change.

Not that the DoD is going to suddenly allow Myspace back through their firewalls. Are you kidding me? There's more bad HTML and Javascripting on Myspace than on off-shore SPAM servers, just phishing for passwords and credit card numbers.

And, Pandora's blocked too. Now that I'm home, I'm completing a 2-for-1 browser window of blocked sites at work. Jimmy Eat World after The Nadas after Doves. Now, Guster. God bless the little internets.

No, the DoD won't allow Pandora back though, either. Not when we can get Armed Forces radio streaming through, and Lord knows I loves hearing me Bon Jovi, Common and Los Empandas Es Mucho Campanero or whatever that Spanish-language song is I can't understand.

No, I'm looking at doing something more drastic. Moving.

New job. New town. New problems. New opportunities. One less bridge.

I am about ---><--- this close to accepting a job back out in the Midwest. Back in telecom. Doing what I never should have stopped doing.

Moving to the Upper Midwest in the late summer? Should be easy. Living there in December? I don't know. It'll be cold, but, it's back doing something more my speed.

I'll make up my mind tomorrow. The Ides of August. My uncle Jim's birthday. Sure there's some sort of symbolism there, but, I'll be damned if I can find it.

I know this - I'm not sure what I know anymore. The Clash asked "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" If Mick Jones and Joe Strummer can't help me, who can?

Oh...I know who to ask.



Hmmm....he's no help. Damn you and yourbland, meaningless blue-eyed soul, Astley!!!

    So, my Datelab article hit the Post Magazine and website this weekend. According to the comments, I'm much more likable than her. Yay me?

Hiked Whiteoak Canyon on Monday. That screaming sound you heard was my calves. That's a hell of a hike for an out-of-shape bugger like me.

PC's being a real dick lately. C: drive hates Windows, Windows hates C drive. SO, I loaded XP on the D drive and made that the boot drive. Now, Windows hates my keyboards. I have to open device manager to disable, and then reinstall the keyboard just to type.

Not only that, but I'm installing every bit of software again. Eeesh.

Got my mom's old PC up and running again, though. Can you say "Linux box?"

T-minus one month before I need a new job. Keep yer fingers crossed...and hire me, dammit! Though, to be fair, my current employer is looking for other gigs for me within the company. Awfully nice of them, frankly.

So, it's pretty obvious from my Myspace page that I am a fan of Lost. I was a little concerned as the first few episodes from this season were fairly mediocre. However...after tonight's season finale, the writers could devote an episode to reading telephone books in Esperanto. This was, simply, television at its finest.

More twists and turns than L'alpe D' Huez (Tour De France thing, Google it you lazy bastards. I don't have time to explain all of my witty references.)

I won't give anything away as a courtesy to those who haven't seen it, or are waiting for the Season 3 DVDs to come out, to get caught up. I will say this - The Sopranos *was* the best-written show on TV.

"Lost" used this episode to say "uh, not so fast, HBO."

In other news...The Milltown Brothers and Power of Dreams have Myspace pages. Two of my favorite Britpop bands from college...wounded, but not forgotten. PoD has disbanded, but Milltown's still kickin', and I downloaded their newest album from iTunes. I'll give it a listen, but I have to use this to point out the absurdity of the label system. Both of these bands had college rock/alt rock hits here in America. Both bands got caught up in label issues, and were regulated to smaller status in the U.K. 15 years later, I can listen to them online, see where and when they're performing and buy their newest music without one hint of label interference.

Not to get all Agent Smith on your ass, but that ticking you hear in the background, RIAA and your kin spread throughout the planet, is the sound of your impending doom. Record sales in `07 are off 20% from last year's dismal sales figures.

Evolve into promotion, not distribution companies, if you want to live.

(Heh, that was kinda Terminator 2-ish there...had to spell out that witty pop culture reference.)

I just found Right Said Fred is still around.

Remember "I'm Too Sexy?" Yeah, despite what we may have heard or dreamt, they're still alive and making music.

www.rightsaidfred.com, or http://www.myspace.com/rightsaidfred

To wash away the pain, I suggest Islands, or Me First and the Gimme Gimmes. Somehow, listening to the Gimme Gimmes do the Dixie Chicks' "Goodbye Earl" is blunting the pain.

 

 

 

What did I just do? Nothing yet, nothing like my dear buddy Jefe' who decided to pirouette in gym shoes on asphault, and now has a torn ACL and MCL. No,  I simply signed up to be part of the Washington Post's Datelab. I'm getting set up on a blind date by the paper. They pay for dinner, and I get to meet a new woman. All I have to do is go on the date, talk to the lass, and do an interview afterwards. No big deal, but what kills me are the past Datelabs. There seems to be no middle ground there - either the people hit it off and get married in two months, or they never talk to each other again. At the least, I can write a nifty DCFUD article about the meal.

Now, I'm not expecting love at first sight, though that would be something to write home about, but I'm curious as to who they're going to fix me up with. Cute? Pretty? Plain? Tall? Short? American? Foreign? Girl-next-door or exotic woman of mystery?

If they could swing the unengaged Bush twin Barbara, I'd be a big fan.

Anybody but Jessica Cutler, please. Only one blogger per household.

How funny would it be if it was somebody I knew from MeetinDC? Just how quickly do you think I could run away?

(would the Post still pay for dinner?)

I'll have you note that I have recently repimped my myspace, and added a Dancing Bateman. Couple of new pictures, too.

I am no longer 0-for-2007.

I finally used the thing I am best known for. First time all year, and I feel GREAT!

It was so long in coming, too. I felt like I could go all day!

 

 

 

I rode my bike into work. Why, what did you think I was talking about?

Y'all need to get your mind out of the gutter.

zoot alors! Pardon, mal francais.

 

Not exactly the birthday weekend I had planned.

I'm now 34 years of age. Mid-30s. Wow. Don't look it. Don't feel it. Don't act it. Need a nap, though.

The weekend started off with a rousing trip to Bravo Bravo for the monthly MeetinDC Happy Hour. I got to see some friends, and I got to cock-block this little bugger named Michael. He was hitting on some girls, so I decided to be a royal arse and tell them the story of how he was so intent on hitting on a very uninterested MiDC girl that he ignored everybody else, to the point of forgetting that he'd met me 5 times in 3 months. I should have told the ladies that he only dates women with Master's Degrees - I wonder if TESST College has a graduate program.

The night turned quickly sour when Jeff took me to the Science Club. Couple of drinks later, and I was done for the night. Thank God John found me and was willing to take my suddenly-non-rockstar ass home. I also found out that somebody I had always rather liked was a bit of a bitch. Actually, a lot of a bitch. I'll chalk it up to her having a bad night, but I'm also not above thinking that "she's changed, man."

I passed out in John's car. They say tolerance is the first thing to go...great.

Saturday was a waste of a day. It was supposedly gorgeous. I have no idea. Maybe it was. I didn't leave the house until I got dinner at 8:30pm.

Sunday was a hoot. Mom and Uncle Larry wanted to take me out for my birthday, so we went bowling. Mom didn't reserve lanes, and she chose an alley that's 1/2 duckpin, 1/2 ten-pin. So, you know what that means?

KIDS! Everywhere! Sugared-out, screaming and kicking, and running with abandon.

And, here's what I don't get - you ever heard of a bowling alley that doesn't take credit cards? In 2007? Of course, mom forgot to hit the ATM beforehand, so...I had to pay for my birthday bowling.

Uncle Larry, not to be outdone, tells the waitress at the tacky suburban chain restaurant we went to apres-bowl that it was my birthday, and asked what treat I'd get.

Um...Larry. Let me apply this lesson with a Cluebrick.

I hate birthday singing in restaurants.

Despise it. Rank it up there with Nextel cell phones going off in Church and screaming, sugared-out kids in bowling alleys.

Fortunately, I was able to prevent the server from gathering the rest of her cult and singing Happy Birthday to me.

Is it just me? Do people actually go to wacky chain restaurants for the birthday singing? What do they think? "Nothing reasserts my status in the universe than having a group comprised of 19 year-old single moms too stupid to use birth control, 21-year-old college students worried about midterms, 16 year-old hostesses wearing slutty dresses that would make Lil' Kim blush and 17 year-old busboys who can't wait to become waiters to earn the "big bucks", all of whom secretly hate me, sing 'Happy Birthday' to me in a suburban strip mall painted to resemble a Gulf Coast beach because I'm too lazy to actually travel to a real Gulf Coast beach for the real thing and too lonely to have any real friends sing for me?"

It's about the best I can come up with...unless people who enjoy the singing are the same people who delight in camping out for the inevitable "American Idol All-Stars" tours because they really felt their phone calls made a difference whether or not that plucky young hillbilly from Kinhump, Alabama with the 36D's and the 36 IQ got her propelled into the Top 8.

In any event, I managed to avoid the singing and the free calorie-laden dessert that comes with it. Some people like free desserts, but I won't suffer through the indignity of having a bunch of Sunday afternoon diners geegaw at me because 34 years ago today, I escaped from my mother's placenta-lined Gulag like a Stalingrad intellectual during Stalin's reign.

And, to make matters worse, Larry left my birthday gift at home.

*sigh*

My birthday proper was a cause of great joy. Awoken by chirping birds about an hour earlier than my normal wake time, I stumbled into my 34th year on the globe tripping over the ironing board, stubbing the hell out my toe and wondering what else could possibly go wrong?

How about a 30 minute traffic jam on my way to the property manager's office to drop off my rent check?

How about a basic "F-You!" letter from my very bitter ex-girlfriend, who has essentially figured out that all blame in the relationship lies on my shoulders? I'm not perfect by any stretch, but to ignore her own failings in the relationship - and to drop the note in my inbox on my birthday - seems a little classless. I'll forgive her, but only because I expected some sort of vitriol.

How about a whiny P-gon official who complained that we didn't have enough wireless microphones for everybody in the conference center? I did get an "atta boy!" from an Army LtcCol who heard my quick explanation that "we might have to wait until next fiscal year as the war budget is a higher priority than soft-talkers."

How about a nice letter regarding the outbreak of the Norovirus in Crystal City...after eating a catered lunch from Crystal City?

I did get some nice phone calls and e-mails. Gabe dropped a note on Myspace, as did Stef from NYC. Dana called, Melody in L.A. showed off her craptacular...I mean, SPECtacular singing voice. Notes from Brian, my dear friends here in NoVA, a call from Heath in NYC, Scottie K sent some love.

Hell, even my roommate's cat let me pet him.

And, my friend Gina, whom I haven't seen in nearly 18 months (something else happened 18 months ago...can't remember what...), took me out for a celebratory cupcake at Cakelove/LoveCafe' on U Street in the District. I can only describe Cakelove's offering as this - it's like dating somebody WAY too hot for you. You know you won't last long-term, but God they're fun to eat.

So, all-in-all, it was a birthday. I survived another year on this fragile globe, and despite my best attempts, am still optimistic about 34 and beyond.